InsaneJournal

WHO: Padraig and English!George
WHAT: George coming to force-feed Padraig
WHEN: Early December, 1846
WHERE: Padraig's Dublin home
WARNINGS: Talk of famine?



When the potato blight brought across the sea had first been reported in Ireland in 1845, the British government had been optimistic. Then entire crops had been ruined, and the devastating truth had taken hold. Ireland was in desperate trouble. The prime minister of Great Britain had put relief works in place, and then the entire ordeal had been eclipsed by parliament arguing about local corn laws.

And then people started dying.

Things were made worse in June of 1846 when Robert Peel was forced to resign as prime minister and a Whig party member, Sir John Russell took over. The Whigs believed in laissez-faire, that the market would provide the food needed. He halted the relief in place when people were already dying. And the market, of course, provided nothing. Yet England continued to export Irish crops.

It was a disaster. Padraig was working non-stop, begging the English government to reconsider and to change their views. His people needed him. They were crying out for help and intervention.

His house was small and cold, but adequate, especially since he was rarely there. The famine was affecting him too, however. He couldn't fill his own stomach while his people starved. Over the last twelve months he had grown thinner and thinner. In his weakened state he was forced to stay home throughout a great deal of November and December. Even then he spent what time he could writing desperate letters and trying to advise the Whig government of ways to grant Ireland relief.

He was bent over his desk, frantically writing just that kind of letter when someone entered his home, unnoticed.

George had not been able to stay away, not forever, even though he knew he was probably the last person Padraig would want to see right now. But what could he do? His government never listened to him these days, unless he was agreeing with them. He was doing what he could. All he could. Part of that involved taking care of his brother, who doubtlessly was not taking care of himself.

"Padraig," George said, leaning back against the closed door.

Padraig knew that voice and at once he looked up from his writing, letting his pen fall to the desk. "George," he breathed, his voice desperate. Perhaps he should feel angry with George for the things his government was doing (and later he absolutely would) but for now seeing his brother there, leaning against the door, was the best thing he could have beheld.

He wanted to get up, but he didn't have the energy to do so without preparing himself first. "George, come hug me." And he held his arms out because at least that he could do.

George moved forward and hugged his brother, wincing as he did. Padraig was a bag of bones; he could feel the knobs of his brother's vertebrae.

"God above, when was the last time you ate?"

Padraig rubbed his eye and he looked up at his brother, mournful. "I don't remember. There's nothing to eat. I've been working. What are you doing here, George?"

"I came to visit," George said. He shrugged off the heavy bag he had slung across his shoulders. "And I brought food."

Contained within was fruit, several loaves of bread, and dried meat. George would have brought more, but he was worried it would have spoiled by the time he reached Padraig.

Padraig did know that hoping George was here to announce some form of relief from the English government was too much to hope for. He still had, and when George said he was here to visit, those hopes were crushed.

Food though. His brother had brought food.

He breathed out sharply, trying to steady his shaky body. "You managed to get through the city with it?"

"I'm very good at looking mean when I have to," George said. He knelt down next to Padraig. "Please eat? I feel like I'll accidentally snap you in half if I touch you."

"George-" Padraig wanted to argue. He wanted to pitch a tantrum and scream that his people were starving and he had no right to eat while they suffered. But he was suffering too.

He expelled another shaky breath and then he said softly, "they say three million people in Ireland are entirely dependent on potatoes for sustenance. Three million people and I'm one of them." Padraig didn't have a haughty position in the empire like George did. He didn't protect the crown and he didn't have a state-supplied house. He did work for Ireland's benefit, but even before the famine he had just made enough to live on. And that life was not filled with extravagance. He wasn't just affected by the famine because he was working so much and refusing to eat while others starved. He wasn't in a position to afford or acquire much if any food while the potatoes withered in the ground.

He closed his eyes and even though he willed himself not to cry, he couldn't help himself. Padraig covered his eyes and he cried.

George pulled his brother out of his chair and hugged him tightly. If he snapped him in half, he snapped him in half.

Against the top of his head, George said, "I am trying to help, Padraig. You aren't completely alone."

The moment he was on the floor with George, Padraig leaned his head against his brother's chest and he kept right on crying. The effort expended on expressing his misery was almost too much for him in this state and he very nearly blacked out there, leaning up against his brother.

Instead he sniffed and pulled away, his head swimming dangerously. He gave a little nod, agreeing to let George help. Padraig reached for George's bag, now that he had agreed he was too intent on finding the food to wait until George had gotten it out for him. When he caught sight of everything George had brought for him, and unbidden and lusty sound escaped his throat.

"You miracle worker," he whispered as he pulled out one of the loaves of bread, before unceremoniously shoving a great handful into his mouth. He knew it wasn't intelligent and it was likely to make him vomit it back up, but he couldn't stop. Not unless George took it from him and forced him to slow down.

"Oh, wait, slow down a bit," George said, watching Padraig practically unhinge his jaw to swallow down bread. He knew how hard it was to control yourself when you were presented with food after a long time without, but he also knew the way too much at once could make someone badly sick.

Padraig didn't want to slow down. The bread tasted so good; light and flaky and perfectly crumbly. He could have used it to make a sandwich with the rest of what George had brought but he didn't want to take the time.

"Can't," he whispered around a mouthful.

"A-all right, just-" George nudged the bag away from Padraig to keep him from grabbing any more of the food and watched him plow through the loaf of bread in record time. George grabbed an apple and handed it to him. "Chew, or you're going to choke."

Padraig took the apple and he bit into it. It was juicy and crisp and he let out a moan of pleasure before chewing. "George-" he whispered. "Thank you." He looked up at his brother and he smiled a bit, crumbs sticking to his chin. "Saw Famine the other day," he said around another mouthful of sweet and delicious apple.

George picked at his own nails nervously. It made him happy to be able to do this for Padraig, to give his brother some small moment of relief, but he knew it was just that. A moment.

"I don't suppose tossing her into the ocean would alleviate things, would it?"

Padraig shook his head and he finished off the apple. He eyed the bag of food that George had pulled out of reach, but his stomach was telling him he should probably stop despite the fact that Padraig wanted to eat every single item in the bag without stopping. He didn't want to make poor George stop him from eating, as he was fairly sure the memory of barring his starving brother from sustenance even if it was for his own good would not be something George needed on his conscience.

Instead he wiped his mouth and said, "it's not her fault, it's her job. Doesn't make me feel any better. She didn't seem to indicate she would be done any time soon though. It scares me, George. I don't know what's going to happen."

"It might help you feel better, though." George knew he was being a hypocrite, given that he had forgiven War for any number of horrors, but it was easier if his anger had a focus that wasn't his own country.

"I am trying to make them listen back home, you know," George added, his voice smaller than he would have liked.

"I know, brother," Padraig said, reaching out to touch George's shoulder. "I know there is only so much you can do. How long can you stay?"

"A month, at least," George said. He smiled ruefully. "The bright side to being ignored by my government is that they don't harangue me when I'm gone."

Padraig looked a bit worried at that, even if he was happy that his brother would be here. "George- You'll starve." Unless George had brought a hell of a lot of money with him. "I mean, of course I'll be glad for the company. Just a bit worried."

"I'll be all right, Padraig," George said. He'd gone hungry before. He would survive it, and being with Padraig was more important. "And if I come back looking lean, well, all the better to convince them to stop ignoring the problem."

Padraig didn't like that, but he was certainly relieved not to be alone. "George, I am so glad you're here." He didn't know what else he could say to that. "Not that I really like the idea of you suffering to prove a point. But I will be glad for the company."

George handed his brother another chunk of bread. "You need the company. And also more of this bread. I think I can see all the outlines of your bones."

George tried for a light tone, but it inevitably fell flat. His brother was starving, and all George wanted to do was drag him back to England and stuff him with food. But he knew Padraig wouldn't stand for it, and George couldn't blame him.

Padraig looked down at the bread in his hand and he broke it in half. He then offered the other half to George. "I do need the company. I honestly don't know what to do, George. I don't think there's much I can do." He sniffed and then glanced over at his cold fireplace. "I don't have much wood, but I could light a fire with what I have. It'll be nice to be warm for once."

"Point me towards your woodpile and I'll start a fire," George said, gently pushing the bread back towards Padraig. His brother needed it more than he did. "You rest."

Before long, a small fire blazed in the fireplace, and George was still fussing around his brother. "I could make tea?"

Padraig knew George had likely been travelling a long time and he might be hungry too, but he also knew not to argue. He kept the bread for himself like George said. He nodded when tea was mentioned, and he inched towards the fireplace. "Thank you," he said again. He wasn't really looking forward to seeing his brother go hungry, but he was so grateful for the company. It was beyond words. "I just want to sleep." He smiled and shoved the last of the bread in his mouth, chewing happily. He felt better than he had in months. And it was all thanks to his big brother.